I, You, and Everyone We Knew

Senioritis kicked in for me mid-November of my senior year of HS. I was already accepted to the college of my choice -- that is, to the college of my second choice. My first choice was ruled out when my mom said I could not go to an out-of-town college because "[she was] not going to scrimp and save to put [me] through school while [I] ran around with [my] friends." Think that would make a kid bitter? Oh, I was bitter -- I was soaking in it, like a finger-bath of negative-energy Palmolive.

By the time graduation rolled around, I did not even want to attend the ceremony. There are pictures of me on Graduation Day looking surly as hell because I was being made to walk. I wanted them to mail me my diploma. I wanted out. And I sure as hell did not want to see 99% of those fuckers again. [Note: With 698 people in my graduating class, that means I wanted to only ever see about 7 of them again. Sounds about right.]

By the time my 10 year reunion rolled around, I had warmed to the idea. Again, I love transformation (in a time-lapse-photography sort of way, not a Francis Dolarhyde sort of way), and although one decade is not as marked a metamorphosis as two, I suddenly wanted to see how we all turned out. At the time, though, I was playing Winnifred in Once Upon A Mattress -- stranded in Michigan with no understudy, and the reunion was the middle weekend of our run.

So now, as a result, I am bizarrely hunting down my classmates on purpose, trying to assist the 20-year reunion point person with tracking down my whole class. Some of it so far has been fun. Some has been bizarre. But I'm looking perversely forward to seeing us all in August. Of course for me, with my work, I will only be able to run out there for the weekend, hopefully with BFE (BHE by then), but how long to I really need to ogle these folks for anyway?